My Recurring DIY Nightmare

Yesterday was the first day someone other than me worked on the house. I hired a plumber, and I still feel bad about it.

Basically, I straight-up bricked it. In order to finish dismantling the kitchen, the RMOFS, and the weird little en suite that had been wedged into the master bedroom maybe four decades ago, I needed to cut the copper pipes running up from the basement. None of the fixtures had a shut-off valve. The lines needed to be carved up and capped.

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I was going to do it myself. Lee's dad, Jim, had given me a lesson on how to solder copper pipe at the kitchen table a few years ago, and I remembered how to do it. I had some little copper caps and my torch. I followed all the pipes and decided where I'd make my cuts with my reciprocating saw.

And then when my blade clanged off the copper, I wavered.

I had these nightmare visions, sudden and forceful. I imagined I'd do the work, feel good about it, and then head back to the rental. While I was sleeping, one of my joints would fail, and in the hours before I returned to the house, our basement would flood to the windows. I became paralyzed with the idea of getting in over my head, first with the work, and then with the water.

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So, I called in a professional. He was a lovely man named Barney. He couldn't have been kinder, and he did a clean, efficient job. He didn't charge me much, and he took less than two hours to plow through what would have taken me far longer. I'd recommend Barney to anybody. And I slept last night, knowing that my basement was dry, and that an expert had done the job he had spent a lifetime doing.

Or I would have slept last night, at least, if it weren't for the shame.

I can tell you when I felt exactly the same way before:

Maybe eight or nine years ago, Lee and I were traveling. We were in San Francisco. We went for a massive walk — I missed a fold in the map — and ended up in a park in Haight Ashbury. We sat in the sun. It was a beautiful day.

Maybe ten yards away from us, an old hobo sat on the grass. He had three cans of beer beside him, fresh bought and cold. He cracked one open and took a surprisingly delicate sip. I nudged Lee and said something like, "That guy is enjoying that beer." And he really looked as though he was. He'd lived whatever suffering life, had made whatever terrible mistakes, and yet in that moment, he was flush with joy. He was sitting in the sun with a cold beer, and he knew what it meant to be happy.

And not two minutes later, some street kid, some little punk fucker with a shaved head and zits, started berating the hobo, just looming over him like a vulture and really laying into him. And then the punk starting pushing around the old guy, a few shoves here and there, until finally he took a big swing and knocked the old guy's beer out of his hands. The can went flying and landed on the grass near us, the beer pouring out until the can was empty. Then the punk took a few more swings, lifted the old man's two remaining beers, and left with a laugh and a strut.

And I watched it all happen.

It really ruined more than my day. It had been such a pretty scene, and then it got wrecked, and I had done nothing in between. I thought about saying something, but the truth is, I was scared. Maybe the punk had a knife. Maybe he had some friends in the bushes. Maybe I'd end up rolled because I didn't want to see some hobo have his beer taken away. Maybe it would have been the last day of my life.

But in some weird way, I'd almost choose that, rather than live with the regret. If you ask Lee about my life's stains, one of the first things she'd say is, "The park in San Francisco." She knows how much that day has stuck with me, how much it bothers me and will always bother me. I should have done something, but I didn't, and living with what I didn't do is far worse than whatever else might have happened.

When I was in the basement, with my blade on the copper, I should have just fucking cut it.